


A Beetle, a Bentley and a Bookshop

by kermitwashingtonlincon



Series: the flat above A.Z Fell & Co [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (which should be a tag on every fic if ur not a coward), Affectionate Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Live Together (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Queer Themes, Warlock Dowling is a Little Shit, first chapter is pretty short sorry! its more like a teaser, he just loves to love his angel, its from the dowlings whatd you expect, mix of book and tv canon, nanny ashtoreth did not raise a het, part of a series but can be stand alone, queer warlock dowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermitwashingtonlincon/pseuds/kermitwashingtonlincon
Summary: Warlock Dowling, recently seventeen needs a place to go after being caught with another boy. An angel (and a demon)'s bookshop is a place to go
Relationships: Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Series: the flat above A.Z Fell & Co [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555048
Comments: 86
Kudos: 582





	1. beetle

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty different from the last installment in this series but i feel like it belonged here

Warlock Thaddeus Dowling was having a good day. He was at a boy’s house, his name was Avery and he had stick and poke tattoos and really pretty brown eyes. They were supposed to be studying, that’s what both of their parents thought. 

Truly, they were sitting too close together on Avery’s bed, whatever it was on Netflix just background noise for the heartbeat in Warlock’s ears, or the hand crawling up his own, or lips on his.

“Aver-” that was Avery’s mother, the teenage boys jumped away from each other, Warlock’s face bright red.

Warlock was not having a good day anymore. 

Warlock was out of Avery’s house, no time to pull his platform boots on, fumbling for the keys to his shitty old Beetle in his big black jacket, a car both his parents hated but he always secretly thought it a good place to stay the night after a quarrel with them.

_ She’s gonna tell my dad, she’s gonna tell my dad, she’s gonna tell my dad _ .

He turned the key in the ignition with shaking hands, thinking about places to go, the address of the homeless shelter for queer youth popped into his mind, he’d be found there, surely, and he didn’t want to be found. If his parents knew where he was they’d never stop harassing him about it, its easier for an ambassador to have an unhappy child under their roof than to have a happy child running about.

So he just drove, drove and drove, the way Nanny would drive him around, the way he drove that would get him in trouble were he driving the expensive car his parents bought him. His go-bag slid around the back seat when he made a sharp turn. 

Warlock made the safe choice and slowed to the speed limit before picking up his phone to call John, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, “Can I stay at your place tonight? I’m out past curfew and ma would fuckin’ kill me if I came home late,” this was true, he was out past curfew, he was supposed to sleep over at Avery’s, but he was pretty sure his parents weren’t home.

Mr. and Mrs.Dowling had never hit Warlock, that would imply that they were around enough to ever be angry at the boy, Nanny had done a majority of the parenting while Mr. and Mrs.Dowling ran off to wherever they were going. Wherever it was, Warlock hadn’t been allowed since the incident with Dr. La Vista when he was eleven. 

“I’ve got Beth over tonight, sorry man,” John said, “Just sleep in your car.” He had done this once or twice before, but he was running low on gas, and he’d left his wallet at home and the money in his go-bag was for food, if he slept in the car he’d probably freeze to death, it was  _ way _ too cold for early September. 

Warlock groaned into the phone, parking in front of a run-down strip club, it’s sign’s letters only lit to read  **S** T **RI** P **-TE** AS **E** . For a late Friday night in Soho, it was strangely quiet. Unbeknownst to Warlock, this street was often quiet, and when it was, there were often somber meetings in cars parked just where he was.

“Heard there’s an old bookshop run by some-” John cut himself off after what Warlock had told him last week, “Some guy and his husband, ‘s got funny hours but I think they could show you where to go.”

***

Aziraphale curled his strong arms around the demon in his bed, who had just woken up and made a strange noise, “What is it, my dear?” the angel kissed his partner’s snake tattoo gently.

“Somethin’ feels off, I dunno,” Crowley grumbled, “I need some alcohol,” the demon rolled out of the bed.

“Crowley, put some pants on at least, I have windows in the shop, you know.”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” Crowley complained, pulling some decent clothes on anyway, “Who’s walking past a bookshop at eleven o’clock?”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” Aziraphale joined him, pulling the striped pajamas he had folded on his dresser over his head, “But now I’ve woken up I can’t go back to bed.”

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley sauntered down the stairs, followed by Aziraphale. The angel slumped into the couch in his backroom while Crowley picked whatever alcohol he was going to chose.

For the past few years, Crowley had made it a habit to coil around Aziraphale on the couch and leave alcohol moderately forgotten on the table as he pressed kisses all over his angel. Tonight was no different.

“Did you know that I love you?” the demon asked, from Aziraphale’s neck where he was planting soft kisses.

“I certainly hope so,” the angel replied, and the demon slithered up to kiss his lips, “I love you, too.”

There was a knock at the door, “Ngk,” Crowley complained, “Cock-block.”

“Crowley!”

“Alright, sorry, I’ll get the door,” Crowley put up his hands defensively and left the room to answer the door.

“Button your shirt, dear,” called Aziraphale, even though he had been the one unbuttoning.


	2. bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door opens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive still got my other wips but. ive had more motivation to write this

Warlock tugged at his necklace, he’d bought it at a thrift store because it looked just like the one Nanny used to wear, just a plain black rosary, except someone had turned the cross upside down. He had never been religious, only thanking God in patriotic events where nobody meant it, but he often found himself playing with the beads in a prayer-like way. Warlock bit his lip and rolled on the balls of his feet, finally letting a hand stop fiddling with the beads around his neck so he could knock on the door.

_ The lights are on, someone’s up _ , he told himself. Footsteps, someone was approaching the door, he really truly hoped this was the right shop.

Most of the kids Warlock spent his time with had mentioned the shop before, praising it’s owners as pure angels. Azi (apparently A.Z, Warlock had always thought it was one word) and his husband could apparently be found in pictures older than they said  _ they  _ were, so Warlock had no idea what to expect when the door opened.

“The shop is clo- oh,” the man who opened the door said, this must be the  _ & Co _ .

“Sorry, erm,” Warlock looked at his feet, laces left untied. He probably looked like an idiot, with his piercings and his strictly second-hand clothes (the brand new ones went to where he bought the clothes he actually  _ liked _ ). “I was lookin’ for A.Z Fell? My uh- my parents won’t let me back home,” that was only a partial lie, they probably wouldn’t let him back home, no confirmation though.

“Right, yeah, I’ll go get him,” the man said, Warlock stepped back to let him close the door so he could wait outside, “What the heaven are you doing? Get in here, kid,” the man just about grabbed Warlock by the lapels of his jacket to pull him into the dusty shop.

***

“Crowley, dear, who is it?” Aziraphale asked from the backroom, checking that his shirt was straight, picking up one of the forgotten wine glasses from the table, “Don’t sell any books,” he took a sip of his wine.

“Stay there, kid,” he heard Crowley say, so Aziraphale went to follow the noise, a ‘kid’ here this late at night couldn’t mean much else than it had the past two centuries. “Hey, angel, I think we know this kid,” Crowley’s voice had lowered to a whisper.

“Is it Adam?”

“Wrong boy.”

Another few steps forward past his partner confirmed it. Warlock.

He had  _ grown _ .

The last time Aziraphale had seen Warlock, the boy had hardly come to his chest, now, even with him sitting in a chair that oddly echoed Crowley, the angel could tell Warlock had grown taller than himself. It wasn’t just a physical growth either, a silver ring hung from his septum and symmetrical rings sat in his lower lip, his hair had clearly been cut to his ears with the wrong scissors, probably in a bathroom mirror. That was still his nose, though, even with metal in it. And those were still his eyes, though they’d widened and bags had developed beneath them.

The least shocking part of this new  _ look _ was the clothes, similar to those he’d seen on boys similar to Warlock in the nineties, jeans with too many holes, graphic t-shirt, a black jacket and boots that looked near-impossible to walk in, all in dark colors. Warlock had always expressed an interest in clothes like that when he was young, but his parents probably would have seized if he dressed like that.

Aziraphale couldn’t decide if he wanted them to have seized. On one hand, they were awful parents, and Mrs.Dowling hadn’t been a big fan of Brother Francis, saying things at a distance a human shouldn’t be able to hear at. On the other hand, wishing people had seizures was very un-angelic, and they were still Warlock’s parents.

“Uh, hi, I erm,” Warlock stammered, “I need a place to stay, and I uh, well I heard that the owner of the place in the eighties and stuff was all,” he paused and bit the inside of his cheek, “willing to let kids stay if there’s nowhere else, and all that shit.”

“Well,” Aziraphale had never seen Warlock like this, he had tended to ramble on and on when he was younger about whatever it was he was interested in (something both Aziraphale and Crowley had found sweet), but never like this. He’s grown up, the angel supposed, but this boy was being forced to grow up more than he needed to, and it was all threatening to spill out from his grey eyes.

Before Aziraphale could finish the sentence he’d started Warlock was already stammering again, “That’s probably not something you do anymore. It’s dumb, I’m stupid. You just wanna settle down with your husband, I get it, I can just stay in my fuckin’ car.” Warlock uncurled his limbs from their impossible position and walked for the door.

***

“Oh no you don’t,” Warlock was grabbed by his collar by  _ & Co _ , “You’re staying right here, ‘s late, you can sleep in the spare room.”

“You don’t even know my name. How do you know I’m not a robber?” 

“Not much worth anything here, dear boy,” A.Z smiled, “And I would hope you aren’t a thief, you seem like a fine young man.”

“It’s Warlock,” he felt dumb, as he often did when he introduced himself. But he felt especially dumb in this moment, with these two men. Now he thought about it, these men looked very familiar, but the faces were unplaceable. There were rumors that the two were immortals, if that was true, maybe he’d seen them in paintings and old photographs.

“Lovely to meet you, Warlock, you can call me Aziraphale,” the blonde man used a manicured hand to shake Warlock’s own with a surprisingly strong grip, “This is my partner, Crowley.”

“Good to meet you, kid,” Crowley’s grip was just as firm, though his shake was less of a shake and more a jerk of his whole skinny arm.

Something about these two was.. off somehow.

The way Crowley carried himself reminded Warlock of his tutor, Mr.Harrison, who must have been Nanny’s nephew or something of the sort with the resemblance between the two. Mr.Harrison had had an affinity for evil-doers of history, but also thoroughly enjoyed telling Warlock all about the people of questionable genders and sexualities, which was probably why he was only allowed to stay a few months. Mrs.Dowling had said something about ‘tainting’ Warlock. 

With Mr.Harrison came, and left, Mr.Cortese, who could speak any language other than French. Both of them took an interest in the French Revolution, bickering about it in a way Warlock would call playful. Mr.Cortese was similar to Aziraphale, in some ways, but Cortese dressed in more colors and gave off the vibes of a hip, gay, university professor who told you to call him by his first name. Aziraphale gave off the vibes of a decidedly  _ not _ hip, gay, university professor who told you to call him by his first name.

Warlock hoped to have a lot of those if- _ when _ he went to university.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me projecting onto warlock. also! if you havent read the book, when nanny and brother francis leave, gets two tutors named Mr.Harrison and Mr.Cortese, who, like nanny and francis arent stated to be crowley and aziraphale but im just kinda. melting canons here


	3. Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock explores the room upstairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how ive got so much motivation on this fic but i do! also once again melding book and show canon with francis and nanny

“You should get to bed, dear boy, it’s late,” Aziraphale instructed, “Upstairs, first door on the left. Do you have any spare clothes with you?” 

Warlock nodded meekly, “I’ve got some in my car.”

“What’s it look like? I’ll get it for you,” Crowley offered. Warlock looked between the two strangely benevolent men. Something deep in his stomach told him these two were familiar, and trustworthy.

“Old Beetle, ’ve got a messenger back in the backseat.”

Crowley left the bookshop with a nod and Aziraphale gestured for Warlock to head upstairs. Past the first door on the left was a small bedroom, in one corner was a queen-sized bed covered in welcoming red tartan sheets. Right at the edge of the bed was a dark wooden chest, atop that, was a small photo album Warlock told himself he’d look at later, he couldn’t help but snoop. 

He emptied his pockets out onto the bedside table, he realized he still had his keys. Had he left his car unlocked? He was sure he had locked it, it must have slipped his mind.

Opposite to the bed was a large bookshelf that, like almost anything he’d seen his short time here, could not be any younger than fifty. The books shelved on it were a different story, judging by their well-loved covers but still maintaining what could only be assumed to be their original colors.

Running his hand over the spines, Warlock read the book titles. As you might expect,  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ (not a first edition, those were downstairs), and  _ The Diaries of Anne Lister _ sat proudly on the shelf. Unexpected from a shop like the one Warlock was above were titles like  _ Lost in the Beehive _ , Warlock had read that once, it was why he loved bees so much. Well, one of the reasons. Alongside that,  _ The Perks of Being a Wallflower _ , this one looked like a first edition, Warlock took note to be careful if he read it.  _ Annie on My Mind _ was bookmarked with an old dog-eared photo, another mental note to look at later.

He jumped at a light rapping on the door, “There’s your stuff, kid, now go to bed,” Crowley smiled and tossed the bag with incredible accuracy onto what was now Warlock’s bed. “G’night.”

“‘Night, sir,” Warlock replied.

“‘s just Crowley.”

“‘Night Crowley.”

Warlock sat on the bed and sank into the memory foam, the blanket was already somehow warm, he kicked his shoes off and groaned. He looked down at his socks, a tenth birthday present from Brother Francis, the blue of the sky on them had begun to fade into the clouds and the wings of the angels, but the rainbows on either sock were still there. For the past seven years, they were some of the only socks Warlock had always been able to keep together somehow, always at the bottom of his drawer, he hardly wore them, though they had begun to wear at the heels and toes.

It sounded stupid, but Warlock did really love sentimental things. Hardly any birthday presents Warlock got were anything of any value except in the money sense, but he had always enjoyed what Nanny and Francis gave him, even if they hadn’t put any thought behind it, Warlock did.

Tears that had been threatening to spill over all night finally carried out their threat, and Warlock curled into the bed to cry.

There was not really any reason for Warlock to cry, except there were quite a few, but those reasons were not worth crying about in the eyes of Warlock’s family. A seventeen-year-old boy should not be crying over books in a bookshop or socks with worn heels. 

A seventeen-year-old boy should not be crying because he was caught kissing someone he liked. A seventeen-year-old boy should not have been kissing another seventeen-year-old boy in the first place.

A seventeen-year-old boy should not be crying because two strange men running a bookshop in London Soho were offering him a place to stay and caring for him when his friends abandoned him.

A seventeen-year-old should not be crying because he missed his childhood nanny, he especially should not be crying over missing a  _ gardener _ . 

But he was, so he let it happen.

***

Angels sense love, obviously, Aziraphale had grown accustomed to a constant feeling of it, as of this moment, it sat in his right, snoring quietly. Crowley had told Aziraphale that demons knew when somebody was vulnerable to influence, easier to tempt that way, it must have been how he knew Warlock was outside, the angel assumed he was sensing something similar right now.

The feeling of love had gone only slightly up when Warlock entered the shop, somebody loved him and he knew it, or he loved himself, the feelings could be mixed. Now, though, the feeling was leaving, lowering back to its normal levels. It was being leached away from something, not the books, and definitely not Crowley. Maybe the people across the street had argued, he told himself, unlikely, as the two women that lived there seemed very content with their cats and each other.

“Crowleeey,” Aziraphale shook his demon awake, “Something’s off again.”

“You’re pro’ly nervous ’bout Warlock, get to bed, angel,” he said sleepily.

“N-no, something is just  _ wrong _ . I’m going to check on him,” the angel climbed out of the bed with a protest from the demon, who was close behind, as he often was.

Aziraphale knocked on the door softly. “Warlock? Have you gone to bed? I forgot to wish you goodnight,” he excused his intrusion. 

The sound on the other side of the door was almost too familiar to Aziraphale, he frowned at the thought. Over the past two centuries since he opened his shop (and even sometimes before then) he’d felt most of this before, he’d seen a lot, heard many stories, patched wounds, offered a home to children in a situation he feared he could have been stuck in if he took his relationship with Crowley to where it was now. This time was different. 

He knew Warlock, he’d been there when he said his first word (“Angel!” he’d shouted, Nanny Ashtoreth beamed with un-demonic pride), he’d carried him into the manor when he fell and scraped his knee. Aziraphale had taught Warlock that bees only wanted to land on him because they thought he was a flower, and he had told Warlock all about the creatures of the world.

Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth had both been careful about the lines between fiction and reality, or, the human concepts of fiction and reality. There was still a drawing of a unicorn running away from Noah’s ark in some drawer in Aziraphale’s desk. Warlock had made it for his mother, and she gave it to the first staff member closest to her to do something with it, and Brother Francis tucked it into one of his pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comfort next chapter yeeyee


	4. bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock gets what he needs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is time. for comfort. bit of a short chapter i'm sorry!

Warlock chewed at the scar on his lip from when he’d split it open at age seven. “Good night,” he said in the practiced tone of someone who was not crying.

“Do you need anything? I’d completely forgotten I didn’t offer you anything,” Aziraphale said from the other side of the door.

“Erm,” Warlock thought out loud, “Coul-could I get a glass of water?” There was a light chime only someone listening for it would hear, and Crowley pretended to walk to the kitchenette for a glass of water. But Warlock’s ears were very well trained, he knew that chime, and he knew the sound of false footsteps. Warlock hadn’t heard that chime since his eleventh birthday, but he had heard it often enough as a child to recognize it.

When he was younger, Warlock would fall and get hurt, Nanny would clean his wound and kiss it better, he heard the chime. Sometimes, a bird would fly into the large windows of the manor, a chime was heard and they flew off perfectly fine. Warlock had always thought it was an overly active imagination, that’s the logic his parents would use, but he hardly imagined things anymore. 

After an appropriate amount of time, Aziraphale opened the door and shuffled in while Warlock tried to avoid his gaze. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

“No,” Warlock said in more of a squeak than a word, the bed sank down beside him with the weight of the shopkeep.

“Do you need a hug?” it sounded like a strange question, Warlock hadn’t heard it much, he sat up to face the man. Crowley stood in the doorway, ready to get rid of anything that tried to enter the room.

Warlock nodded weakly, tears spilling over in his eyes again, “Y-yeah.”

“Come here,” Aziraphale opened his arms and put them over Warlock’s shoulders, not clinging to him, just resting there, waiting for the boy to make an indication it was alright. Warlock squeezed around Aziraphale’s stomach and he took the cue to squeeze the boy tightly. 

Aziraphale gave the perfect hugs. Something about his general aura made you feel calm and safe, and his grip was strong enough you felt taken care of, but not so tight that you couldn’t escape the embrace. He was also very warm, so warm is spread over Warlock’s whole body like he was being covered in laundry fresh from the dryer. Somehow, the man smelled musty and fresh and Warlock buried his face in his cotton pajamas.

“Wanna talk about it?” Crowley said, no longer in the doorway, Aziraphale let go of Warlock and the boy pressed the base of his palms to his eyes and shook his head. 

“Can we uh,” Warlock wiped his nose on his sleeve, “Could we talk about it in the morning?”

Crowley yanked Warlock into a hug. Warlock really didn’t do hugs, especially not with strangers, but these two. These two were different as if he’d known them his whole life. So he let himself be hugged.

“‘Course we can talk about it in the morning,” Crowley stepped away from him, keeping a hand firm on Warlock’s shoulder. The boy stared into Crowley’s eyes, he hadn’t really looked at them all night.

He knew those eyes. Not just in the way you know the eyes of a grieving person or an angry person. 

Warlock  _ knew _ these eyes, he’d seen them late at night when he had a nightmare and went to wake Nanny up. He’d seen them when Mr.Harrison would lower his ever-present dark glasses to give Mr.Cortese a playful look.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Warlock told his hosts.

“Are you certain? We can stay up with you as long as you need,” offered Aziraphale.

“Let the boy sleep,” Crowley cut in, “he’s only human, angel.” 

_ There _ . That’s it.

Warlock made a small sound as his two guardian angels left the room, leaving the door cracked open.

_ Guardian angels _ , of course! 

Nanny and Francis (and Mr.Harrison and Cortese, now Warlock thought on it) all made an effort to guide him, protect him. He’d been guided here, back to them.

Warlock took a sip of the water on his bedside table, enjoyed it more than he normally would have, knowing it had been produced miraculously.

***

“You always did love that boy,” said Aziraphale when he and Crowley had climbed into bed.

“Shut up,” the demon replied in a tone not dissimilar to a time in 1941.

“You did. Can’t hide anything from me, feind.” 

Crowley grumbled and turned over, because the angel was right, as he often was. Aziraphale pulled out his copy of  _ Cupid and Psyche _ and read into the early hours of the morning. He remembered very fondly his and Crowley’s meetings in ancient Greece, the humans had mistook the demon for Eros, neither of the supernatural beings complained about this though. Aziraphale had secretly thought Eros was very fitting for Crowley, but he’d never let Crowley take that satisfaction, he’d been too smug about it then and he would be smug about it now.

“Angel, go to bed,” Crowley groaned, “Turn off the light, at least.”

“It’s almost morning, Warlock might be up soon.”

“He likes quiet mornings, y’know. Told me he likes to be alone.”

“But-” the angel protested.

“Leave him be, he isn’t a child anymore.”

Oh, but he was still a child in Aziraphale’s eyes, especially now. Warlock was a scared child who needed the last few years of his life re-done with an angel and a demon in the stead of his parents. Nanny Ashtoreth had done most of the parental duties with young Warlock, and Aziraphale almost felt he’d missed something and had to make up for it. To add onto that, the bookshop hadn’t had any young charges in nearly a decade, and while that was a wonderful thing, Aziraphale really did miss it.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale turned the lamp off with a touch to its base (humans were so clever with the touch-activated lamps) and nestled into the warm sheets, letting Crowley coil around him.

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Night angel,” the pair shut their eyes.

After a moment, Aziraphale asked, “Do you think Warlock still enjoys those cinnamon rolls? The ones from the can?”

“Yes, go to bed.”

“Sorry.”

“‘S alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are very appreciated! writing fuel


	5. boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock gets an ending he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was struggling with the ending of this fic and i don't know how i feel about this but! its fine

It had been two weeks, Warlock still hadn’t heard anything from his parents, and he was already looking for other places to stay, and school was about to start back up again, he was dreading that. Friends sounded like a good option to stay with, but Warlock had been breaking down a lot lately, and hanging out with friends meant hanging out with Avery and then that night would be brought up, and he didn’t want to talk about that. 

“You’ll never be able to afford a place to stay without a job, dear.”

Warlock jumped, “Jeez, A.Z, you scared the shit outta me.” Warlock had grown much more confident since that first night, but he was still yet to open up to the angels running the shop. The confidence in the guardian angel theory grew when Warlock started finding old photographs of mostly Aziraphale, but sometimes Crowley as well, amongst young adults and teenagers, smiling. In some were weddings that weren’t allowed at the time, some had university graduations, some were just people having a good time, Aziraphale smiling like a proud father in all of them. Nobody had ever smiled at Warlock like that, not really.

“You could work here, you know,” the angel offered with a sweet smile, “You are also welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”

Warlock smiled back, if you asked him why his lip was quivering he would have told you that it wasn’t, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive, my dear boy.”

***

Six weeks, still nothing. Warlock had begun working for way more than a bookshop that didn’t sell books should be able to pay, but he found he was very efficient at his job (the job being to glare angrily at customers trying to buy things). Warlock and his guardian angels had fallen into a rhythm, they all got up at vaguely the same time, though the time was never consistent, and Aziraphale and Warlock would eat while Crowley stole bites from Aziraphale and stared at his husband with his cheek in his hand. After breakfast the shop would ‘open’ and they got on with the day, Crowley would pop out to do Lord knows what and come back to get Aziraphale in the afternoon to feed oats to the ducks in St James’ Park.

They’d be gone for hours, sometimes, but Warlock spent those hours poring over the thousands of books in the shop, taking care with the pages and never opening them fully so the spines wouldn’t be damaged. Surprisingly, Nanny had taught Warlock enough Gaelic to read the diary of a Scottish highlander from the eighteenth century. Reading this diary only confirmed Warlock’s belief that his caretakers were immortal at the mention of an Azeraphael and Craowley in some spots. 

Actually, a  _ lot  _ of the ancient books mentioned the two of them, with some variation on spelling, a few times at least. Some stories of Sir Aziraphale dueling with the Black Knight, said to have yellow eyes. A woman named Crawleigh and her husband Ezraphale and their encounter with the Virgin Mary, a moment that made Warlock realize he was going about the whole guardian angel thing lightly. He’d never thought about the connotations of meeting two angels, the young man sent up an ‘Sorry, ma’am’ to Her and went back to the misprinted (but more accurate) Bible he’d found in Aziraphale’s collection of Bibles.

A soft tinkling announced that someone had arrived in the shop, “Just a sec!” Warlock called to the hopefully-not customer. “Oh,” Warlock had seen one or two pictures of the boy standing in the front of the shop, he was a bit taller than Warlock was, which was rare, but maybe the dirty blonde ringlets on his head were adding a bit of height.

“Is Mister Fell here?” the stranger asked.

“No, nope, he’s uh- in St James with his husband,” Warlock stepped a little closer, “They’ve prob’ly been going there since it opened.”

“Do you-?”

“Do I?”

“Know about how long they’ve,” the boy searched for a word, “been together?”

“Yeah, long long time.”

“Oh!” the boy said suddenly, striding confidently to a startled Warlock in his clunking boots, “Forgot! Name’s Adam,” Adam stuck his hand out confidently, he seemed to do everything confidently, like he ruled the world.

“Warlock,” he limply shook the blonde’s hand.

***

Lord knows how long. Seven months, maybe? Adam came around more and more often, talking to Warlock about nothing much, really, but they had more in common than one would think by looking at them. For one, they shared a birthday, a very odd birthday when it came to the eleventh. Warlock had put two and two together, once again, in the realization that the magician who had been called a word Warlock would hear directed at himself later on, had been Aziraphale, because of course it had been. 

After four months, they both figured out they had been raised wrong, or, by the wrong people. They had a good laugh about it and joked that if Warlock ever met the Youngs he should call them Mum and Dad. 

“Maybe you could,” Adam had said.

“Maybe.” A gap between the boys closed on the couch where, unbeknownst to them, many gaps had been closed, mostly between the beings that owned it.

***

Ten months now, Aziraphale still hadn’t heard anything about Warlock’s parents, which was good, he was nearly eighteen now, about to graduate and hopefully get off to university.

“Did you know Warlock and Adam-?” Aziraphale made a gesture with his hands over his dinner, the two boys were out somewhere having dinner on their own.

Crowley nodded, “Yeah, yeah, six months now, I think.”

“ _ Six months? _ ”

“Wrong boy must've been right for the right boy,” Crowley shrugged. The demon was still very protective of their charge, even moreso, now, but he smiled more now. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was like a distressed father worried a dumb teen romance would break his son’s heart. Adam was a good kid but he had a tendency to get bored, the angel tried not to dwell on it.

Many years later, when Warlock and the rest of Them had graduated university (much earlier for Wensleydale, who was very happy with his accounting job), Warlock would go to what were essentially his parents now, who hadn’t aged a day, and talk to them about that. Talk to them about his childhood, what he knew, what he’d figured out and when, Aziraphale would blush and ask, “Are we really that obvious?” and Adam, who had been sitting with Warlock, would nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this accidentally turned into antichrist boyfriends and that this conclusion is so short, but thanks for sticking with me (this fic is waay different to the othes i have planned for the series, but you know, you should read em anyways)

**Author's Note:**

> you can pry warlock dowling from my cold dead hands


End file.
